A Study in Mastication
by Jyght
Summary: Sherlock has chewed gum before... just not for fun.
1. BORED

Sherlock has chewed gum before... just not for fun.

...

This is the first fanfic I have completed! I had just a bit of feedback for this one, mostly from my sister though. I tried to stick with the characters well, but I'm a bit iffy on how I portrayed John. Let me know what you guys think!

...

John sucks in a breath, mentally preparing himself before opening the fridge. Gripping the cold metal handle, he wrenches the door open like ripping off a bandaid. He let out a sigh of relief to see the fridge devoid of toxic or radioactive substances.

John's stomach growls and he frowns at the nearly empty fridge. He curses the half empty milk carton and bag of carrots, eyeing the slightly molding shredded cheese suspiciously.

His mind is focused on one thing.

' _Food_.'

He shouts in the general direction of the living room. "Sherlock, I'm stepping out for groceries, do you want anything?" He hears a barely audible "Hmf." John glances into the living room and raises an eyebrow.

Sherlock is draped over the sofa upside down with his eyes closed and his head hanging off the cushion. His feet were dangling over the back and one arm splayed over the armrest and the other resting dramatically on his tipped back head.

"Sherlock."

"Hmmmf."

John rolls his eyes and turns away with a tut. At least he got some response from the frustrating detective. That was better than nothing, right? John opens the pantry to see what else he needs to pick-

" _Sherlock_!"

"Mmm?" Sherlock lazily opens one eye to look up at John who had stormed over to stand in front of him.

" _What_ is in the _pantry_." John is fuming with frustration. "At the very least I would expect it in the fridge, but the _pantry_?" John is mentally plotting ways to end Sherlock's life.

Sherlock blinks at John's upside down expression with a bemused glint in his eyes. He chuckles. "You wouldn't hurt me and you know it." Sherlock then turns his head away and mutters dismissively. "Was an experiment." He closes his eyes and, again, covers them with the back of his hand and an exaggerated sigh. He continues with a whine. "I'm just so _bored_ , John. _BOooOoRed_!"

"No, no, _no_. You don't put a bloody _dissected_ rat in the middle of the pantry, Sherlock. Even if you're _bored_! Do I even want to know why?" John thinks his patience couldn't possibly wear any thinner.

Sherlock chuckles. "Well, the rat _is_ bloody. Are you attempting at humor, John?" He gives John a smug grin then sighs. He mutters again lazily, as if the effort of speaking was too much to bear. "Experiment, wanna see if...eaten… if the other rats… eat it... hmmmf."

John clears his throat and straightens up, his eyes boring into the taller man's skull. " _Sherlock_ , look at me." After a few long seconds, he receives a slightly annoyed glance from the prick.

"I'm going to have to replace every non-canned item in the pantry. You're going to have it _cleaned up_ by the time I get back." John paused, his tongue darting over his bottom lip. _'Should I really indulge Sherlock when he gets in one of his moods? Probably not, but maybe it'll be a motivator...'_

"If you remove that fucking rat and throw away the food that needs pitched, _AND_ disinfect and wipe down the pantry… I'll see if Greg has a case for us."

Sherlock blinks. "...Greg?"

" _Lestrade_ , Sherlock."

"Ahh." After a long pause, Sherlock flops his arms around in defeat. "Fine, but pick up some patches. It's the only way I'll survive this debilitating boredom."

"No Sherlock, no cigarettes, no patches, remember? You're quitting cold turkey."

Sherlock looks up, feigning a sad pout and even bats his eyelashes. " _Please_ John?"

' _That fucking pout.'_

"I said _no_."

"...Nicotine gum?"

John hesitates. ' _It's better than patches I guess… and if it shuts him up...'_ "Alright, but if I see _one_ speck of blood or feces in that pantry when I get back, I'm throwing it in the bins."

Sherlock offers no response.

John walks away, his anger slowly dissipating. ' _Insufferable_!' He returns to the kitchen, holding his breath again and opens the pantry to take inventory for the grocery list. He swore he heard a squeak from somewhere else in the cabinets.

...

Sherlock doesn't move a muscle for about five minutes after John had stormed out the door. Four minutes and thirty-two seconds to be precise. He twitches only when he realizes that the blood rushing to his brain was finally too much and is making his head spin.

He lets out a loud unrestrained groan.

" _BOOORED_." He sits up enough to rotate his body and curl up on his side. ' _I want a smoke. I could clean the pantry…'_ He opens his eyes and rubs at them with the palms of his hands. ' _Am I really that bored?'_

The consulting detective slides off the sofa and shuffles into the kitchen. Sherlock pulls his dressing gown tighter and glares at the pantry. His skin itches and he tightens his fists in frustration. If he gets this over with, he'll have some nicotine. Not a smoke, or a patch, but something was better than nothing.

He roots under the sink for the cleaning supplies.


	2. Strawberry, Cinnamon, or Spearmint?

Plastic bags crinkle as John hails a cab and fumbles for the cab door with two armfuls of groceries. "221B Baker Street." The driver nods and starts down the street.

 _'He better bloody have it cleaned up. I am not putting up with his pissy attitude anymore.'_

They slow down and John looks out the window to see the flat. He pays the cabbie and crosses the street. John is just reaching for the door when it swings open and he is greeted by a manic Sherlock Holmes. He is still wearing his pyjamas and dressing gown and his eyes are wild and unnerving. "Give it!" Sherlock grabs at the bags trying to yank them off of John's arms.

"Hey! Sod off!" John pushes Sherlock hard enough for him to stumble. His shoulders visibly slump and an impatient grunt pushes past his lips. "Where is it John, you've been gone for hours!" John pushes past him with a huff into the stairwell. "It's been 35 minutes. Lemme put the groceries away first!" Sherlock heavily trudges up the steps after his flatmate.

' _Christ, this is going to be awful_.' John opens the door to the flat and nearly drops the bags. "SHERLOCK!"

He turns around to find said detective leaning against the wall in the hallway with an impassive expression. "What is it John?"

"You know bloody well!"

Papers litter the floor and all of the furniture had been moved as if someone frantically tore it apart searching for something. The sofa was missing cushions and pillows and John looks over to his chair and his face scrunches up. "Are you kidding?"

His chair had every pillow and cushion from the living room stacked on it and blankets we're tightly tied around all of it, holding it secure in place.

"I don't 'kid'. I simply cleaned the pantry, set out and organized the cans, sealed canisters, and unopened boxes that I didn't throw away. Then I searched for any narcotics I may have stashed away and found nothing!" Sherlock rakes a hand through his messy curls and gestures to the mess behind John with emphasized air quotes. "So I made an effort to 'keep myself busy' and 'out of trouble' until you returned."

John blinks for a few seconds, still processing the state of the room. He gathers his thoughts and enters the flat with Sherlock behind him. John faces him and juts his chin in the direction of his chair. "And when did that happen?"

Sherlock leans his head and body flat against the wall by the door and lifts his hands. He brings them together under his chin and takes a meditative breath. "The idea occurred thirteen minutes before you first came back from work, I made the decision to follow through 22 seconds after the door closed, and I meticulously composed that structure after cleaning the pantry."

John considers asking why but he knows why Sherlock is being difficult. ' _He's upset I made him_ do _something boring and didn't get him cigarettes_.' John's anger comes to a halt and is replaced with dread. His face twitches in a split moment of panic but he turns away too late. ' _Shit_.' He knows Sherlock has already deduced every thought as if he said it aloud.

"John."

John marches into the kitchen ignoring Sherlock as he follows. " _John_." He whips around and shoots a glare at him. His mind is reeling trying to figure out what kind of retaliation he'll face. "What!"

"You didn't buy any gum."

The air is tense and John breaks the silence by loudly placing the bags on the table and rooting through one of them. He pulls out three packs of gum and turns towards Sherlock. "They didn't have any with _nicotine_. But I got these if you wanted something to chew. You get... twitchy."

Sherlock flicks his eyes over the packs and pads into the other room to curl up on the hard cushionless sofa facing away from him.

"Sherlock. Come on it gives you something to do with your mouth other than complain."

"Hmmf."

"I'm not leaving the flat just because you're arsing about and whining like a child. Do you want strawberry?" Sherlock scoffs. "Okay, how about cinnamon?" This time he's rewarded with a scoff loud enough to sound like a choking cough.

"Hmm, spearmint?"

Silence. John just about gives up when he sees Sherlock raise one lanky arm with an open hand, palm up.

...

Sherlock hears a chuckle and moments later he feels a small rectangular package pressed into his hand. He drops his arm back down and examines the labels, not caring much for the meaningless words and numbers on the package but he is still _bored_.

' _Trident, Spearmint, sorbitol, 5 calories, xyletol, 14 sticks, atrociously green leaf._ '

He opens it and plucks out a wrapped piece of gum, holding it between his fingers. His nostrils are assaulted by the artificially strong scent of mint.

John had quickly put away the cold foods and is now disassembling the work of art Sherlock had left for him. ' _I'm not a child, I can do as I please. Now, John deserves what I did even_ more _so because he could not complete_ one simple task

He tucks the gum back into its slot and calculatedly throws the package behind him over his shoulder. He hears a soft, but satisfying, _whap_ followed by an exasperated grunt. Sherlock grins.

John shuffles around on the floor to pick it up. The pieces had fallen out and scattered. One sharp exhale later, John stalks off to the kitchen. Sherlock listens carefully.

' _In front of the counter, turns to the table, picks up something light, another package? But which? Placed it back down, grabs a different one. Walking back to his chair. Opening paper, yes another pack of gum.'_

Sherlock closes his eyes and breathes in, searching for a hint of a scent.

' _Cinnamon_.'

A moment of silence and Sherlock hears the ear grating sound of a person chomping down and chewing on gum.


	3. Idea

John chomps and chews away, humming to himself while he works at the ties on his chair. He manages to free it from the mountain of cushions and sinks down into it with a sigh. The gum had lost its flavor a while ago, but he is enjoying irritating his flatmate. He picks up a pillow lying next to his foot and chucks it at Sherlock who hasn't moved for a half hour now.

"Hmmf."

' _Fine, if you get to be an annoying sod, it's my turn, Sherlock_.' John grips another small pillow and tosses it between his hands. He winds up his arm and throws it hard, aiming for the back of the sofa above Sherlock's head.

 _Whump_.

The pillow bounces off and falls onto Sherlock's still form. John grins, but the novelty is slowly wearing off because Sherlock won't give a satisfying response. He gets up and heads into the kitchen to spit out the gum that was shredding and turning tacky.

Sherlock flips over and sits up, planting his feet on the floor. "Finally! You stopped that incessant chewing!"

John walks nonchalantly back to his chair and sits. He reaches down over the armrest and just barely grabs the pack of gum. He supresses a giggle, settling a smirk on his face.

John holds a steady eye contact with Sherlock while he unwraps another piece and pops it into his mouth, biting down.

...

Sherlock glares at him and reaches under the sofa for his laptop. He draws his legs up and crosses them to place his laptop on them, ignoring the hard wooden frame of the sofa beneath him. He snaps it open and furiously types away.

 **Why chewing gum is bad for your health**

Sherlock hits enter and scans over the brief summaries of the search results. ' _I'll show him. John's a_ doctor _, surely he knows the bad effects of gum; bloating, gas, excessive production of stomach acid, erosion of enamel, the irritation of_ EVERY PERSON AROUND HIM.'

Sherlock takes a deep breath, calms his thoughts, focusing them, and starts piecing together a presentation of the pros, and more importantly, the cons of chewing gum when his process is interrupted.

 _POP_

Sherlock tears his eyes away from the screen to see John pulling the popped bubble off of his face and back into his mouth. Sherlock screws up his face and hopes his expression perfectly matches his thoughts. ' _Disgusting_.'

John simply hums and doesn't so much as glance over to where Sherlock is boring a hole into John's uninjured shoulder with his glare. John had picked up a book to read and was settled back comfortably in his seat.

Sherlock places his laptop to the side. Any presentation of facts would be ineffective considering John's determination to pester him. Sherlock props his elbows on his thighs and rests his chin above his steepled hands. He closes his eyes and hears the _'shhoo'_ of the bubble expanding this time and–

 _POP_

Despite paying attention for the pop, it was much louder this time and Sherlock involuntarily jumps at the sound. His eyes fly open and he snatches up his laptop, marches over to grab his mobile from his desk, and continues right on into his room, slamming the door.

He flops onto his bed and lets out a muffled groan into his pillow. _'A case!'_ That's what the consulting detective needs. A case that needs his brilliant deductive talents. Sherlock turns on his mobile to send a text to Lestrade.

Case!–SH

Sherlock twiddles the device between his fingers as he waits for a response.

Nothing right now.–GL

Sherlock throws the mobile at a blanket he had tossed to the floor and swipes his palm down his face, breathing in. _'Mint?'_ He sniffs his fingers, the scent is faint, but distinct; Sherlock definitely smells mint. _'Must still be on my fingers.'_

Had this been a cartoon, a lightbulb would have comically appeared above the dark curls on Sherlock's head and lit up. What actually happens is, Sherlock bounces to a sitting position and his eyes dance around, his mind formulating an experiment. He scrambles for his mobile to type out a number by memory and prepares another text.

'Need groceries.–SH'

His mobile buzzes moments later.

'Shopping list?'

Sherlock sends a few more texts before sitting back. _'Time to get rid of John for a bit.'_ After a few minutes, he hears his flatmate's mobile ring and some muffled conversation through the closed door before John shouts from the living room.

"Got called into surgery again, I'll be a while."

Sherlock doesn't answer and the door to the flat clicks shut. Sherlock leaves his room and watches John get in a taxi from the living room window.

Sherlock waits a few more minutes, then pulls his long coat over his pyjamas, slipping on his shoes. He treads down the stairs and walks out of the building to trade off some money for a plastic grocery bag with his supplies. He trudges back to the flat, taking a peek at the contents of the bag.

' _Surely_ _, this will at_ _least_ occupy some _time_ _while I'm bored.'_


	4. Surprises

John finds himself at the door to 221B Baker Street a half hour later, confused more than anything. He had called Sarah to let her know he was halfway to the clinic but she claimed no extra help was needed today and nobody had been called into work. So John turned around and trudged right back to the flat, more than a bit frustrated with the situation.

Stopping when he reaches the door to the living room, he takes in the scene before him. Sherlock is sitting, legs sprawled out in the center of the carpet. The chairs had been shoved aside with cushions and blankets re-stacked onto both and the table turned at an angle perpendicular to Sherlock. The table is littered with papers covered in numbers and charts and countless wads of paper wrappers. Scattered around him on the floor are dozens of opened packs of chewing gum.

"Thirty different flavors to be precise."

At the comment, John's looks up to meet Sherlock's gaze. "Do I want to know why? The smell in here from those is God awful, Sherlock." To punctuate his statement, John wrinkles his nose and scrunches his eyebrows comically. "Hnnm." is all Sherlock offers in response and returns his focus to, whatever it is he's doing.

John makes his way over to the detective, stepping around the detritus and shuffles through a few of the papers. There are tables with flavors down the left column and characteristics in the top row. John reads some aloud as he scans the list, "Flavor duration, scent strength, elasticity, deterioration... Sherlock are you experimenting on gum?" _'At least it's not my sodding chair and nothing is on fire'_ but John keeps that though to himself, not wanting to give his crazy flatmate any ideas. He takes another look at the wads of wrappers and notices the chewed gum stuffed in them. "You could at least throw those in a bin."

John drags the small bin from under the sink towards Sherlock and goes to sweep the gross, used gum into the it but finds a surprisingly strong hand wraps around his wrist before he can blink. "No, I need those for the follow up experiment."

"Sherlock, they're all over the place, you can't _possibly_ know which one was which flavor, and let go of me." Sherlock blinks up at John and releases his grip.

He huffs out an annoyed breath and John has to suppress a giggle. "John, I've said this three times before, and I do hate repeating myself. Eidetic memory. As long as you don't _touch_ anything, I know where everything is." Apparently confident that John will not attempt any further interference, Sherlock returns to his experiment.

John observes Sherlock hard at work. hovering his hand above a row of unwrapped rectangles of gum contemplating before selecting one. It isn't until Sherlock is chewing thoughtfully that the doctor realizes what his flatmate did. " _HEY_!" Sherlock sputters and coughs hard, spitting the gum into his hand. His head snaps around to let out a stream of abuse at John but the ex-army doctor is quicker. " _You_ ," John squares his shoulders and points down at the infuriating man, "had someone phone me _in to the clinic_ so you could go out and buy _gum_?"

Sherlock's mouth opens to protest but John barrels on, "No, you didn't buy it, you're still in your dressing gown and I wasn't gone long enough for you to have made it to Tesco and back." John narrows his eyes. "That homeless man with shopping bag I passed as I left the flat was part of your network and you paid him to buy you gum. Jesus Sherlock, literally, all you had to do was ask me to get you more gum." _'Wow'_ John thinks, and pinches the bridge of his nose. "If it meant you were no longer bored, I would have marched to the store myself without protest instead of embarrassing myself over the phone to Sarah. You make everything so bloody complicated!"

John finally lets out a slow breath to allow Sherlock to respond. Instead, the man had crossed his legs and taken up his thinking pose, his head is tilted slightly atop steepled fingers and he is looking at John as if he had sprouted a third arm. John is not as amused. "What?" John snaps.

The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirks a bit and he simply replies, "You continue to surprise me, John." Sherlock's eyes soften and he tips his head further to the side. "It's... those were good deductions."

John feels the irritation drain from him instantly and he clears his throat, unsure of how to react. This is one of those rare moments where _he_ is on the receiving end of praise, even rarer coming from Sherlock. John realizes he has been staring a bit too long. "Um... Ta, Sherlock. Just uh, just let me know if you need anything."

John grabs the newspaper from the kitchen counter and one of the sofa cushions from Sherlock's chair to sit on said sofa. He resigns himself for a long evening and opens the newspaper. _'If he has his mouth full, maybe I can actually- Oh_ come onThe crossword was already filled out in Sherlock's messy scrawl. John rolls his eyes and flips to the sports section instead.


	5. Lost

Sherlock smiles to himself, knowing that John found the crossword he had helpfully completed for him. Sherlock examines the piece of 'Berry Burst' Extra gum he nearly choked on and drops it into the bin that John had provided. He needs a fresh piece to start over after he was rudely interrupted, though he can hardly blame John for being cross with him.

He immerses himself into his experiment, so wrapped up in the flavors, textures, and scents that the first thing that registers in his mind when he next takes notice of his surroundings is that John is not in the room. The second is that it is nighttime and the lights had been turned on at some point. The third issue that painfully draws his attention is a combination of a sharp burning in his tongue, stiffness in his jaw, and gurgling in his stomach.

Before the detective can analyze much of the situation, John comes down from his room, hair still damp from recently showering. John heads in the direction of the kitchen but stops and steps closer to Sherlock. He looks concerned. "Christ, you look awful. Have you been chewing gum this whole time?"

 _'Of_ course _I have, it's an experiment.'_ Sherlock wants to snap, but his jaw tightens instead, he can hear his teeth grinding and a spike of panic runs up his spine.

John hands are on either side of Sherlock's face in an instant, the doctor's fingers probing along his jaw and gently pressing. Sherlock sucks in a pained breath through his teeth and John frames his jaw with steady hands to knead both sides with more pressure. This only hurts _worse_ and he makes a weak attempt to push John away.

John's voice is chastising, but warm and soothing nonetheless when he speaks. "Your temporomandibular joint is locked up, you berk. Blink how many hours you've been chewing." Sherlock stares unblinking at John and creases his eyebrows. _I have absolutely no idea, John.'_ Sherlock hopes he can understand that much.

Thankfully, John just nods and glances over at the clock, not pausing in his ministrations. "It's been about four hours since I came back to the flat the second time today." Sherlock blinks hard four times then relaxes a bit. _'Of course John would understand.'_

Sherlock feels his jaw relaxing and attempts to open his mouth but pain shoots through his neck and face. His eyes are watering and he blinks through it to see John chuckling. "Stop that. You'll just make it worse." He pulls Sherlock's hands up and arranges his fingers accordingly. "Keep massaging right there, and when you think you can actually move your muscles, slowly work your jaw side to side then down and up in small movements. All Sherlock can do is swallow and nod.

He's not used to this. John's _doctor_ voice. Usually, he had the liberty to rant his brilliant deductions while John patched up cuts from a chase, or grumble while John cleaned burns from an experiment. But this time Sherlock had been alone and disoriented by his surroundings–though he'd never admit it–only to find his transport had seized up and failed him. _'I never get scared. John must think I am otherwise he would not have used_ that tone _with me.'_

Sherlock begrudgingly follows his doctor's orders and slowly works at his jaw, listening to John putter around in the kitchen. Sherlock gingerly unfolds his legs and winces at the joints popping. He stretches and clambers to his feet, moving to the kitchen to watch John making toast and tea.

Sherlock has stopped massaging, but is still carefully shifting his jaw around to keep it from locking again. There is an open first aid kit on the counter. The water is boiling and there are two different packages of tea he set out but only one mug. _'Surely John wouldn't forget something as simple as a mug.'_ With bread now in the toaster, John turns to him. "Don't speak yet, just open your mouth and let me see your tongue."

Sherlock cautiously opens his mouth as wide as possible before he feels a twinge in the right side of his jaw. John holds up a small torch and tongue depressor he feels pressed on his swollen tongue. "Huh," is all that John offers as explanation before putting one package of tea back into the cupboard and setting about making a mug with the other.

Sherlock can smell the toast burning and John is letting the tea steep for too long. The detective is reaching his limit of not understanding what his blogger is trying to accomplish but he just walks away.

He returns with ice cubes in a glass and hands it to Sherlock. "Suck on one or two of these." When Sherlock doesn't move, John tips his head up, scrutinizing him. "Doctor's orders, Sherlock." He hastily complies and is relieved by the cold in his sore mouth.

After three ice cubes, John takes the glass away and hands him a plate with the burnt toast. Sherlock scowls at the offending piece of bread and looks to John for explanation. "Just eat it, it'll help with nausea from all the damn sorbitol, sugars, and God knows how many other indigestion causing chemicals you have in you right now, and drink this between bites, it shouldn't be too hot."

John places the mug into his hands. "Either peppermint or chamomile tea would help with the indigestion too, but your tongue is awful enough and you've probably ingested a lot of mint, so chamomile. Hopefully it'll help with your throat and calm you enough to sleep a bit too."

Sherlock takes the nearly blackened toast and mug to the coffee table and eases down onto the sofa. After a few painful bites and sips, he has to admit that he feels a _bit_ better. Okay, maybe more than a bit. He manages to croak out "John" followed by an even quieter " _thank you_."

John just smiles and chuckles, turning back towards the kitchen. "You'd be lost without your blogger, huh?"


	6. Ta

John frets about, checking on Sherlock often over the next hour. _'That man has no self control with_ anything _does he?'_ Once he is sure that Sherlock is starting to doze off, he guides him to his room. Luckily, he still had his pyjamas on, and the tea helped more than he had hoped. John gets Sherlock settled into and doesn't miss the sleepy smile from Sherlock before he turns out the light and shuts the door.

John finally allows himself to sigh and scrub his palms over his eyes. He would do anything for his maddening flatmate, even take care of him time and time again because Sherlock seemed prone to injury more than any human being should be. Most of the time is was because Sherlock was simply inattentive to his 'transport' or careless in running about.

John scowled at the state of the living room. He still needs to fix all the cushions and pillows, fold the blankets, rearrange the furniture, do _something_ with all the gum everywhere. _'But... I suppose it could wait until morning'_ he rationalizes to himself with a yawn.

John goes through his nightly routine and prepares for bed. It's been a rather long day for the both of them. If Sherlock is getting some sleep, which is extremely rare, then John should lead by example. He drifts off, wondering what a consultating detective dreams about.

...

John wakes at nine by his alarm clock. He stretches, relieved to not feel any ghost pain in his shoulder or leg, and for not having had any nightmares. John would be up around six if had work, but it's the weekend, so he enjoyed some extra sleep. He pads downstairs barefoot with his dressing gown to get on with his day and grabs today's paper, sitting in his chair.

He skims as far as the second page before he registers that _he_ did not, in fact, fix the room. Looking up, he finds Sherlock curled on the sofa, still dressed for bed, watching him with that analytical gaze. John can admit that the first time he felt those eyes deducing him, he'd been a bit unnerved, but now, he just smiles warmly.

John tilts his head and regards the detective. "Did you do all this?" Of course, Sherlock doesn't answer his question directly. "The experiment was inconclusive but the procedure is not worth a retrial," he says.

John still wants to know about the state of the room. "But did _you_ clean the flat, or did Mrs. Hudson? I'd like to know who to thank." Sherlock won't meet his eyes. "Well," he begins with a deep breath. "It was my experiment, not Mrs. Hudson's, and I made quite a mess, and I moved everything, and I caused you trouble, and–" John holds up his hand to stop Sherlock's rapid monologuing before it gives him a headache.

"Ta, Sherlock. For cleaning, I appreciate it." And John leaves it at that. Sherlock nods, and John thinks he's mulling over what John had said. Really, neither of them were very good with putting feelings to words, but he can tell that Sherlock was struggling to show John that he was sorry for being a git yesterday.

The fact that Sherlock had thanked him last night, and cleaned up _everything,_ unprompted by John, was good to say the least. John often felt as if their friendship was one-sided, that John was more of an assistant to Sherlock. But moments like these, reassured him that Sherlock respected, and appreciated him.

To avoid any more disasters, John calls Lestrade and by the end of the weekend, Sherlock had solved sixteen cold cases-a record for him-and three more bullet holes were added to the wallpaper. A nasty murder pops up, and that's all it takes to get 221B Baker Street up and running again.


End file.
